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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441056">the man from the magnus institute, london</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/the_cosmos_lonely'>the_cosmos_lonely (dheiress)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Missing Episodes [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Claustrophobia, Established Relationship, M/M, Scuttling things on the ceiling, Slight spoilers, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 4, The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home: A Welcome to Night Vale Novel, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Typical The Magnus Archives Weirdness, missing episode, no beta we die like archive assistants, this is another tma/wtnv crossover fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:09:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,305</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/the_cosmos_lonely</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you know what hunger looks like? It's the collage of constricted irises against the light and the slick blood on your hands that fail to satiate you. Hunger is the glint of the blade that misses its target, the wide 'o' the mouth makes in silent terror as air rushes out and water plunges in. Hunger is a time lapse of supple skin turning into a dry, gnarly one not unlike the bark of a beloved once fertile orange tree.<br/></p><p> </p><p>(<b><em>Make your statement, </em></b>the Archivist tells us, <b><em>face your fear.</em></b><br/></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And we do, listeners, we make our statements and face our fears, because we are afraid of what he'll do to us otherwise.</span>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p><span>Welcome to Night Vale.</span>)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carlos/Cecil Palmer, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Missing Episodes [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/291566</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Clever Crossovers &amp; Fantastic Fusions, The Witch's Woods</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the man from the magnus institute, london</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkeletonsLoveRockCandy/gifts">SkeletonsLoveRockCandy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Though not explicit, this story contains implications of murder, police brutality, depression, and eldritch mind control. Kindly take care if you wish to continue reading!</p><p>On the spoiler tag, I've tried to keep this one 'The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home' novel spoiler-free, but there are certain themes? Abstract feelings? From the novel that I couldn't resist but write here so if you wished to not be spoiled on the novel maybe check in here again once you've read it :)</p><p>EDIT: 2020/09/14 Added tooltips showing the undistorted text</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CECIL:</p><p><b> <em>Make your statement,</em> </b> the Archivist tells us, <b> <em>face your fear.</em> </b></p><p>And we do, listeners, we make our statements and face our fears, because we are afraid of what he'll do to us otherwise.</p><p>Welcome to Night Vale.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>—INTRO. MUSIC PLAYS—</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>CECIL:</p><p>Hello, listeners. It's another fine day here in our pleasant little burg, the sun is shining hot as always, the dust storms deadly as ever and there is almost nothing significant for me to report.</p><p> </p><p>Almost, but not quite, listeners.</p><p> </p><p>The Night Vale Tourism Board has reported an uptick in the number of tourists this past month. ‘We've been getting people from all over the world’, Night Vale Tourism Board's executive director Madeline LeFleur proclaimed joyously. ‘<em> So many people from all over the world’ </em> , she repeated, ‘and we've been just <em>getting</em> them’.</p><p> </p><p>‘Most of the tourists spend their time in our popular attractions like the Radon Canyon and the Imagination Land’, Madam LeFleur continued, the latter being newly opened a few weeks back and is currently considered as the main reason for the reinvigorated interest in our humble little town.</p><p> </p><p>Carlos and I have gone in there on its opening day and it was a blast, listeners, a blast! The empty space of desert stretching on and on and on as the dust blinds us and chokes us, filling our lungs with the desolate knowledge of our smallness and our inevitable ends that will make no mark against the vast uncaring universe? Ah, very scenic! The endless sands mean we're able to spend several hours sculpting little ramps and seats and imagining we're on roller coasters or other thrilling rides! Carlos just has the most <em> imaginative </em> mind—</p><p> </p><p>[CLEARS THROAT]</p><p> </p><p>‘Some of our visitors, however, prefer the more traditional Night Vale scenes, strolling along our quaint stores, staring up the lights above the Arby’s with the sense of an impending cosmic doom creeping up from their human toes to their human hearts, licking ice cream at the White Sand Ice Cream Shop, you know,’ LeFleur explained, ‘this is why you’ve been seeing a lot, and I mean <em> a lot, </em> of strangers walking around our streets with horrified expressions on their faces, crying and trembling and all those quirky little things tourists are wont to do at such magnificent sights!’</p><p> </p><p>‘<em> Please, </em> Night Vale,” Madeline LeFleur begged, “Do not bother our tourists! If they come to you begging or screaming for help, let them be! Let them have their fun, let them experience the full <em> Night Vale Experience </em>.’</p><p> </p><p>This has been from the bulletin board of the Night Vale Tourism Board.</p><p> </p><p>It’s so good to hear tourism has been booming here in our friendly little desert town! Speaking of foreigners, we have a new intern today, Night Vale! Sasha is an exchange student all the way from London and has been down here the station for almost—[VOICE BECOMES A LITTLE FAINT AS CECIL LEANS AWAY FROM THE MIC] uh, how long has it been again, Sasha?</p><p> </p><p>[A PAUSE]</p><p> </p><p>Three?</p><p> </p><p>[VOICE BECOMES CLEAR AGAIN] Wow, three years, listeners! Feels as if I just met you yesterday, Sasha!</p><p> </p><p>Anyway, Sasha has been an indispensible pair of hands here at the Station, she’s very good at filing and computers. <em> Very good </em> . Also, she’s very talented! Her eagle-eyed beta reading helped my <em> Jaws </em> slash fic improve a lot! She spotted all those fragments I didn’t realize I was making. Sasha, remind me to show you the next chapter after this broadcast, I’ve just typed it out last night.</p><p> </p><p>[CLEARS THROAT AGAIN]</p><p> </p><p>Okay, news, news, huh, <em> neeeews </em>, this is a really good day listeners, I’ve almost nothing to report on!</p><p> </p><p>Let’s go to the ads!</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>CECIL, IN A PRE-RECORDED AD:</p><p> </p><p>Another email, another meeting to be scheduled. Your eyes blur at the words in front of you, but still you try to type your reply. ‘Dear Hannah, I hope this email finds you in good health,’ you start, ‘Regarding your maternity leave’ should have been the next words but you lost the threads of your thoughts and you end up grasping at letters that trail away from your fingers like fog.</p><p> </p><p>You are doing this for a higher purpose, for someone you love, you tell yourself and that is the truth but not the whole of it.</p><p> </p><p>There are days when you can lie so well that you fool not only your boss but yourself too. There are days when the lies sink in deeper than you meant and take root under your flesh, growing into small truths about yourself.</p><p> </p><p>I’m fine (I feel nothing), you say, and a little bit of you feels less each time you say that, although you don’t notice it yet. (You may not notice it at all.)</p><p> </p><p>You are doing this for a higher purpose, for someone you love, you tell yourself but the truth is you are almost forgetting the shape of his face, the tremble of his voice. You protect your truths with so many lies they start to bleed into each other. Even his image fossilized in your mind for safekeeping has begun cracking into little brittle shards and fine glimmering dust.</p><p> </p><p>What am I doing, a small part of yourself that lives on, that still can feel, asks, despairs.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> What are you doing? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There is static in your ears and you are typing a reply to Hannah regarding her questions on the benefits of her maternity leave, there isn’t much at all but at least it’s something, right?</p><p> </p><p>Fog rolls across your ankles and wrists and you almost didn’t see the stapler you’re looking for below your elbow—</p><p> </p><p>Oh, look, another email. What a <em> joy </em>.</p><p>
  
</p><p><b>OFFICE DEPOT. </b> <em> Nothing works. </em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This is really nothing to report on the radio but there’s a new man in town today, he was spotted drinking coffee in the Moonlite-All-Nite Diner this afternoon, looking as if he hasn’t slept in a week, silver scars all over his face like little stories wriggling on his face we won’t get to hear. He was frowning at his coffee but it was an absent minded frown—<b> <em><a>the͠ man͘ from t͜h̡e ̛M̢ag̵nu̧s I͜nst͘itute͜,͜ ̧Ļơn̷d͟o҉n͏,̡ he̕ ͠c͜alled himse̶lf Head ̵Ar̛ch̕i̢vist̡ ҉but ̸h͘e ͢is̴ n̷o͟t͠ t̵he͝ hea͞d͜ ̸of ̵an͘y̵t̵hing h̢e i̵s s͝imply̕ ͡T̷h̨e̢ ̸Ar̨c͜hivi͏st,̧ ̶h̛e ͜ķnows tha̡ţ n͡o͡w but h͠e ͝d̵i͟d̢n̕’t ͟b͟efo̢r̢e͘, wh҉a͠t ̢i̶s͞ ḩe͡ ̸arçhi̛ving͡ ̨y̴ou̕ ask? ͢Ha̸ ha ͝h͘a͡ hah̛a͘ h̴ah̴a͡h̵aha, i͢t̴’̡s̕ ̶not ̡f̸o̶r͜ you ̶t̡o̢ know, t̵hęre ͟a͞re҉ t̨hin̴g҉ş ͏m͟uc̛h̵ better̡ le͢ft in̷ ͏the̶ d͟ar͜k͘, i͟n ͢t̸ḩe͘ ̡u͟n҉kn̸o҉w̴n de͡ar͜ li̶s͞ten̷er̴ s.͏ ͜C͏ome he҉re̕,͢ co̶me̶ h҉er͝e,͏ le̡t̶ ͠t͠h͏e we͜b͟strin̷gs pull ̛y͢ou to ̕him͠,͜ ̵op̛e̴n ̢y̕o̡ur ̡mo͢uth, ̸o̕p̸e҉n ͘y͜our̴ ̧mou̸t̡h̕ an͘d sp͞e͏a͝k,͢ ̵feed̢ ̧h̨i͘m̸ ̸o̧r ̛e̶ls͜e̕ he̶’ll͠ ̡fe͡ed ̨on y͏o͟u͜</a></em> </b>—the kind of frown we all see in disoriented tourists who do not know how they got here. Old Woman Josie approached him and asked how he was because, she says, ‘He looked a bit famished, the poor dear.’ She recommended invisible pie and perhaps getting company to enjoy the invisible pie with. </p><p> </p><p>He did not answer her.</p><p> </p><p>More on him as I stay oddly interested in him.</p><p> </p><p>[LONG PAUSE]</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ugh, it’s such a boring day today, listeners, let’s take a look at what our future holds:</p><p> </p><p>The Sheriff’s Secret Police will temporarily lift the ban on all writing utensils on Monday. For nothing insidious, the Sheriff nervously assured. We just thought you deserved to write about nice things, the horror that still haunts you today, recurring dreams you may have, you know, daydreams! Daydreams are nice things to write about. Maybe ready drafts of thought and memories you wish to let go.</p><p> </p><p>Tuesday, The Sheriff will be blindfolded, all the City Council and their eldritch eyes will be blindfolded, <em> you </em> will be blindfolded, all of us, Night Vale, will voluntarily lose any sense of sight we may have but we will still all hear the Faceless Old Woman who Lives in Our Homes whispers into our ears. ‘Look at him,’ she will say, gleeful, ‘I’ve never seen anyone with that many an eye.’</p><p> </p><p>Wednesday will see all of us in a dream, not the same dream for everyone but not so different from each other, some will dream about meat, about darkness, about the twisting madness from within, about skies falling and within it a greater beast of immeasurable proportions—you know, standard dreams—but all of them wrapped around the all-encompassing fear of somehow, somewhere, someone is Watching everything you do. Yes, just like that, like what you’re imagining, it’s like a burrito of dreams.</p><p> </p><p>We will not remember anything about Thursday.</p><p> </p><p>There will be a storm on Friday, not rain, or thunder, or ice. Imagine a storm. Yes, just like that! Wow, you are so good at imagining things, aren’t you? Yes, you are! Now, remove the dark clouds from your storm, and the loud whistling air silence that too. I already told you there’s no rain or snow, haven’t I? We’re in a <em> desert. </em> Imagine a storm better. Are you doing it? Now, pour all feelings of desperation and loss and helplessness over that storm of yours. Yes, but with more desperation and less anger. That is the shape of the storm brewing up for Friday —oh! I forgot, add <em> fire </em> and lizards. </p><p> </p><p>Saturday is Lee Marvin’s thirtieth birthday. Happy birthday, Mr. Marvin!</p><p> </p><p>On Sunday, the floorboards will beat like a wound infected and bandaged over, the wall will hum a muffled cry of distress, the windows will shutter down in panic, all the doors will twist out this plane of existence—and you. You will be left alone inside your house. Well. Not entirely alone, there will still be that thing scuttling on the ceiling, all pale limbs and many teeth on hungry maws, but you try not to notice. You were always a respectful roommate, Samantha, but Sunday will not be good to you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Let’s take a look at traffic!</p><p> </p><p>You are stuck and you can’t move.</p><p> </p><p>You are stuck. You can’t move.</p><p> </p><p>You. Are. Stuck. You. Can’t. Move.</p><p> </p><p>You are a monster stripped of teeth and claws, but that doesn’t make you less of one. It doesn’t make the blood on your hands dry, doesn’t unsound the pleas that went unheard, doesn’t heal the gashes your preys left on your skin when they struggled for their lives while you pinned them down and clamped your jaws around their fragile little throats. The teeth and claws you grew only helped you tear down lives, but the horror had always lived within, had always craved for the sound of tearing flesh and pathetic squealing that always ends with a bloody squelch. You always reasoned they were lives the world would do better without, unimportant lives that fill others with misery, lives that only you have the honor to take. </p><p> </p><p>To hunt down. </p><p> </p><p>But now, with your mouth muzzled and your claws clipped, the scent of blood both old and new cleansed from your nose, you See—no, you admit—those are lies you tell yourself so your conscience, or what little is left of it, wouldn’t drag you down, so you could move on forward to the next prey. </p><p> </p><p>But now you can’t move.</p><p> </p><p>You can’t move and you can’t breathe.</p><p> </p><p>Your throat imitates the way the earthen walls of dirt and other crawling things are squeezing around you.</p><p> </p><p>You can’t move. You can’t breathe.</p><p> </p><p>And it hurts.</p><p> </p><p>You. Can’t. Move. You. Can’t. Breathe.</p><p> </p><p>And it fills you with wondrous relief.</p><p> </p><p>Listeners, seems like route 800 is all clear! </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>Not really sure why, but The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in My Home left me a note about one of the tourists in town today. I woke up last night shivering, hungering for revenge for justice unserved and scraping wet sand from between my toes, as norm to the way we all tend to wake up when she whispers to us in our sleep. </p><p> </p><p>A spider scuttled on my ceiling, all pale limbs and eyes and teeth on a head without a face. And from the corner of my eyes, I saw it point with one spindly leg at the moon lamp Carlos gave me for one of our monthsaries—have I told you about this moon lamp? It’s very <em> cute! </em> Just about six inches in diameter, you have to softly tap it to light it up or change its color, ah! It’s just like holding your very own moon inside your tiny palm. If you’re like me who finds a large cold rock in space reflecting the harsh light of the sun as it orbits our lonely planet and soothe its inhabitants with borrowed light whenever night falls, it’s a bedroom must have!—[CECIL CLEARS HIS THROAT] so the spider thingy on the ceiling pointed at my moon lamp and guess what I saw under the lamp? </p><p> </p><p>[CECIL’S NERVOUS GIGGLE] You guessed it! </p><p> </p><p>Moths. </p><p> </p><p>Dead moths with wings half chewed by...[SIGHS] I don’t know? Ants, I guess?</p><p> </p><p>She left the message on the underside of the moth’s wings. It took me hours piecing the message and I almost gave up, but you know how the Faceless Old Woman is. [FRUSTRATED CHUCKLING, THEN IN A TIRED WHISPER] I found my best furry tunic half chewed by...moths. Probably.</p><p> </p><p>[CECIL CLEARS HIS THROAT AGAIN] So she said:</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the Caribbean, there is a place where you feel safe, where you think you can settle down and build a life of your own. A place where the salty sea breeze mixes with the sweet-sour waft of oranges and where your dog faintly barks from a distance. The sounds you hear at night are only the sounds of the orange trees groaning, fertile branches dancing with the cool wind, your dog’s peaceful snores, and the amorous music you make with the one you love as you dance like the orange branches under your warm bedsheets. </p><p> </p><p>That place could have been your home.</p><p> </p><p>This is not that place. </p><p> </p><p>This is Night Vale where the Sun is Hot, the Moon is Beautiful, and Mysterious Lights pass overhead as they all pretend to sleep. This is a place of eternal death and hunger, where all the forsaken souls gather to regret lives that could have been lived. At least, that’s what Night Vale is to a Faceless Old Woman Secretly Living in Your Home like me.</p><p> </p><p>Do you know what death smells like? It’s stale air, the final exhalation, stagnant but pregnant with the scents of what made people people. The last thing they ate, a slice of fresh orange; the last person they’ve been with, a friend fond of exquisite wine; the last place they’ve been at, the sea. Death is not the absence of life but the culmination of it. It is not the end but the journey. Death lives on in each of your inhales and exhales, the moment you start breathing is the moment you start to die. Oxygen is poison so it follows that Death should smell like your own breath escaping your miserable mouth. This is what death smells like for me, although we may have too differing deaths for us to agree.</p><p> </p><p>Do you know what hunger looks like? It's the collage of constricted irises against the light and the slick blood on your hands that fail to satiate you. Hunger is the glint of the blade that misses its target, the wide 'o' the mouth makes in silent terror as air rushes out and water plunges in. Hunger is a time lapse of supple skin turning into a dry, gnarly one not unlike the bark of a beloved once fertile orange tree. Hunger is what love looks like when it turns rabid, like a burrito seemingly abandoned on the sidewalk but upon closer inspection you’ll see the multitude of tiny writhing things with many eyes lovingly devouring all that can be devoured. Hunger looks like the thing scuttling on the ceiling you do your best to ignore and forget, still it watches you in all your forms and knows all your secrets. Then again, perhaps we hunger for different things, for different horrors of our own making. Or maybe not too different, after all you’re still reading the words I’ve painstakingly inscribed on the underside of half-chewed moth wings just for you and you’re still listening to the stranger on the radio coo this story into your ears.</p><p> </p><p>Do you know what forsaken sounds like? The sound of a body falling into the water, the sea reclaiming what has been long lost from evolution and returning its once many parts to a lonely unity once again. The echo of a voice once known, now a stranger for it has grown and changed without you. The taps of fingers upon keys forming words to describe the shape of the vast void within. The sound of lips closing, the small sigh released instead of the words that should have been. A door slightly swaying open on its hinges. Forsaken sounds like a multitude of once innocent things. </p><p> </p><p>Do you know what regret tastes like, Archivist?  </p><p> </p><p>I bet you do.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>[CECIL BREATHES OUT]</p><p>...Let’s check on the tourist situation shall, we?</p><p> </p><p>Madame LeFleur of the Night Vale tourism board is once again reminding us not to bother the tourists, Night Vale! No matter how inviting—<b> <em><a>oh͏,̢ ye̸s, ҉t͢h̴e m͏a̵n͜ ͡fro̶m th̡e͝ ̶Magnus In҉st͟i̕tu͡t̸e,҉ Lon̛don, ̢the ̵o̵n̛e͘ tha̛t͝ c̷al̢ls ̕h͜i̕ms̶e͞lf The ͡A̧rc͟hi̵v̛ist̛ ͘tho̢u͞gh it’ll͡ b̧e m̧ore͡ pr͟o͜per ҉to ͞ca̶ll hi̕m̶ b͏y an̕o͏th͡er n͜ame, he ̷inv̶ites̡ you ͢t͢o ͠com̧e t̸o ͠hi̴m҉, ̷you seȩ,͘ ҉ye͜s,̷ ͝h͟e͡ ̶w̴elcom͝es̶ ͟y҉o͟u t͡o t̴e̕l̛l̨ you̢r̶ ҉s͟t̸o̕ry, c̴om̷e͡,̡ ̛ço̶me̢ te̢ll y̧o͏ur ҉s̷to̡r͏y̸,̸ look͡ ̧a͡t͢ h̛is eyes͜ o̶f ͞the ͝brigh͝test͠ ͝gr̛een,҉ and̡ ̷s͢ay it̕,͝ d͞ęsc̷rib̵e ͡th͞e͘ ͠s̷h͜a҉p͠e ͏o̕f ̧th͢ȩ ͝monst̶e̸r̷ ͏haunt҉i̧ng y͡o͟u,͡ h̕e ͢wo҉n’̡t͞ j̴u̶ḑg̵e, he jųs͞t̕ ͝n̢e̢eds ̸a tasţe, a li̡t͏t̡l̷e ̴sn̵a͟ck͠, a͝ ̷little̷ s͜lur͠p̡,̸ of̢ y͢ou͟r ͟hear͟t ̢b̛e҉a̶tin͝g ̕i͘n͝ d̸read͜ a̴nd͠ ̵a͠larm͢,͏ yǫu ͘don’t ͜m͟ind̨,̵ d͘o you? ̢I̸s ͟that a̸ worm wr͜i͘gglin͏g͠ ͜o̢u̡t of ̧yo͜u͡r n̷ai̶l̵s?̴ D̴oņ’t mi͘n̕d͠ i̕ţ, y̧ou ͢were̸ ta͝lkin͘ģ ҉a̡bout ̕the̴ ti͘me͘ y͞o҉u̴ w̸er͠e b͜u̸ri͞ed alive ͡and h̨a͟d̢ ̷t̶o ̵dig̢ y͜o͠ur͘s͟e͏lf ͠o҉ut, ̴w͡eeds͝ a͞nd other͟ ̧d̕i̴r̷t ͟d͜well̡in̴g l͟ife̵ thi͟ck͏ ̸ben̢eath yo͏ur fing̴eŗn̢ai͝ls͜, ҉o͜f c҉ou҉r̕s̡e̷ y͢ou͘’ll ͞s̛e̸e҉ s̛uch t̡h̛i̕ngs͢. ̧Mem͡o͢ry ̨li͏ve͠s͡ i̸n ̛t̷he ̸eyes ҉o͠f th͡e B̶e̵holdeŗ.̢ ̶The̕ ͘min̴d̡ wor҉ks̨ ͟funny͠ ͞l͜ik͟e̢ t̶h͡at. ̴Co͢me te̢l͢l ̴more ̕of your ̵s͟to͠r҉y͞,̴ h͟e didn͡’͡t̕ ̸jud͞g͟e yo͠u̷ f̷or ̶y̢our͝ ̴s̛to҉r̨y, ͢he͝ L͘ist͢en̛e̷d͟!</a><a>D̛o͞n’t l͠o͞o͡ķ a̵t the̢ ̴s͠t͡ra͝n͏g͜er ̸wa͝ving at ͟yǫu fr͢o͝m t͝he c̷o̶rn͝er ͜o͜f̧ y͏o̡ur ey͘es,͝ it͞ s҉ur͟ę has ҉the s͡hape̷ ̡of t̛he͡ c̴roo͜ked̡ ̕s҉mi̛ling man t͟hat ̧a̧c̵c̕o҉mpanied͞ y͠ou ͡thr̵o̸uģḩ ͏yo͢u͝r͠ c͘hil͏dho҉od ̷ņight͏mares b̡ưt d̕o̡es͟n’t it ͢feel go҉od̢ havin̢g you̵r̸ ̸s̡tor҉y̕ l҉is͏t͜ene͜d ̵to?̡ S̵omeo̴n͜e ̢j͠u̢s̡t the̛r̵e̷ ̢to lap ͏u͟p͜ ̶ea͜ch͏ ҉wo͏ŗd yo͜u̧ ̶say͠? ҉C̛ome̵ te̸ll ̶M͟r̴. ̷A̶rc͜hivis̴t y͏our sto̕r̨ies,͢ ͡h҉e̕ wo͠n’t ̴bite, he̡ ̷ju͞s͞t ̴w͏an͡ts Morȩ</a></em> </b> —they may seem, please <b> <em>do not</em> </b> walk right up to their space to chat, they are fragile, Madame LeFleur exclaims, very very fragile. Even more so, <em> you </em> are fragile. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Today’s broadcast has been brought to you by the following sponsor:</p><p> </p><p>[CECIL IN A PRE-RECORDED AD]</p><p> </p><p>‘Let’s discuss this.’ Says the cryptic email from your boss, sent without any time or date of when the discussion shall take place or even hints on what the discussion is supposed to be about.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fuck off,’ you try to write. Your anger bursts like a water balloon and you almost hit ‘send’, but not a second later your own anger betrays you and crystallizes instead into ice shards piercing your own heart, choking down the words you wanted to say to hurt him. </p><p> </p><p>What does it matter, you concede, he would laugh it off anyway. </p><p> </p><p>He’s cruel not because he wants to hurt, but because he genuinely doesn’t care if it hurts or not. (You are afraid. That, mayhaps, you’re becoming more like him each day.) </p><p> </p><p>‘Noted with respect,’ you type out. The letters on the screen are blurry yet somehow they still manage to hurt your eyes. You’re not sure if this means your eyes decided to increase their grade without your consent or if the fog rolling around your office was thicker today. </p><p> </p><p>(You <em> know </em> the fog is thicker today. Which is good, it makes your lie seem more like the truth.)</p><p> </p><p>You hit ‘send’.</p><p> </p><p>((But you’re lying to yourself. Your lies <em>are</em> the truth.))</p><p> </p><p><b>Sharpie</b> . We’ve been here since 1964. We’re still here. Please <em> . Please help us. </em></p><p><br/>
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</p><p> </p><p>The City Council and Agents from the Vague Yet Menacing Agency asked me to remind everyone to stop thinking about the crates out far in the desert. Stop thinking about them. Just stop! Cease thinking about anything at all, it would help solve most of your problems, actually.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p> </p><p>In a continuation of an interest I’ve picked out randomly, just now, let’s go back to one of the English tourists happily enjoying our little burg. Leanne Hart is just saying goodbye to him, rising up from the chair across him, the chair she inexplicably sat down when beckoned by his green, green eyes. He's not looking at her.</p><p> </p><p>Not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>He has finished the invisible pie he ordered at the behest of Old Woman Josie and is now stirring the black coffee listlessly. He does not like coffee but the Moonlite-All-Nite Diner ran out of the tea he requested. Besides, he wouldn’t like it anyway, he consoles himself, he couldn’t help but compare each cup of tea he drinks with the one someone else used to prepare for him.</p><p> </p><p>As he mixes the sad lumps of sugar into the sadder black coffee with a burnt hand that speaks of a painful story, the tinkle of the bell that signals the Diner’s door opening made him look up to see a woman that for so many years he—<b> <em><a>t͡he ̛ma͝n f̧ro͘m͜ ̧ţhe ͡Ma͞gn̛u͢s̷ ͞Inst͡itute͡, ̶Lo͜n̢do̡n, h͞e ̷w̢aits ͜f̨or͟ thos҉e͞ ̡w͟it̕h sto͞ri̕e͢s, th͡ę ̢stori̕e̢s ̶he ̧liķes ͜b͝est̵,͝ the̡ one͢s̕ of̕ ̵delicio̶us̵ ̶ter̕ror a̧n͜d ̶p͜ani̸c an̡d ḩe̶l̛p̸l͟es̵s͡n͞es͢s̕, you c̸an ͟say͞ he͠’͘s͜ ͏a̧r͢ch͜iv̨ing ͘th̡e͡m ̶but n̵o, ̡n̸o͟t̵ ͢ręa͘l͟ly, ̛h҉ȩ’ll hau̸n̢t͞ ̢t͟he ̷d̶r̛ea͜m͢s̷ of͞ tho͟se to̶o͢ ͢b͢r͟a̷ve͞ ͢enoưg̡h ͘to s̵pea͡k b̷ut̕ h͢e’ll hau͡nt̵ t͝h̸e̶ ͞w̴aki͞ng ̕h͢o̷ur̷s ̡of͠ t̢h̡o̧s̛e ͘too wea̧k ͠to̸ ҉d̸o įt,̴ b̨ǫt҉h the͞įr f͢ear̶ş so swee̛t l͝i̶k͝e the j͞uic̨e̷ ͜o͘f ̶r҉ip͢e҉ o̡r̡ąn͟ge̴s ̨lick̨e͜d off̧ a t̶hi͝n wri͢st̕,͏ ̴d͠o y̕ou ̴d͟a̸rȩ ͝c̛h͠ơos̕e li̧k͏e͡ ҉h̷e̛ ͢di̕d͟, li̡ke w̶e̴ al͝l̕ ҉ḑid,͘ w̕h͞at ͟to ͠do̷ ̨wit̡h҉ ҉the̡ ̵horror̷ sw̴el̴ling ͠insi̧d͜e ̵y͢o̧ur̢ ̛m̕o̶u҉t͘h? Wi͟l҉l͏ y̵ou s̶pi͏ll̛ it͠ out ̕in a̵ vo̷mi̧t̕ ̨o͢f̧ te̶a͘rs҉ a͏n̸d͝ fr̴i͠ght? Or ̛wiļl ͘yo͝u͞ ͡inje͡çt͜ it ͡int̡o̸ ̡an͘othe͠r’̛s m͠oųt͡h͜ ̕for ̛it to f͢e̷ste̴r͟ a͢n̕d̶ ͘f͞eeḑ you̧ ̨inste̷ad? Dear͜ ͜l͞i̶s̴ten͠er͜ w̢h͏i͏le҉ ͡you ̡try t͜o ch͢o͘o͢s̛e͝, I̸’ll tak͟e ͝you͜ to̧ t̵he̸</a></em> </b></p><p><br/>
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  <b>W̴͕̯̥̠͉̖̹̹̆ͪͣ̌ͥE͓̭̰̋̄A̛̞͉͕̪̣̣͇͑ͭ̒͒͒͆ͧ̂T̿͛̒͗̄̆̚҉̫͕̼H̐̌̆̊ͦͦ҉̷̖͓̜̙̪̠Ẽ̛̩͎̜̐͐ͫͬ̚Ṛ̸ͥͩ̚</b>
</p><p>.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p> </p><p>—WEATHER:<a href="https://youtu.be/UGPuToWrnsY"> <em>HOLD MY HAND</em> by KEN ASHCORP</a> PLAYS—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>CECIL:</p><p>Truly a blessed day today, listeners, the weather is as refreshing as it had been for the past week. Intern Sasha told me over the break that the man I had no idea I was talking about on air was one of her acquaintances, perhaps you can even call him her friend.</p><p> </p><p>They spent the afternoon catching up, telling stories about life lived out of sight of the other. It was an afternoon well spent. </p><p> </p><p>Alas, as it were with all things in life, they parted ways and—<b> <em><a>t̛h̴e͢ m͢an͘ ͘fro̵m ͝t͡h̴e͝ ͞M̵a͟gn͘u͢s ͝Įn̵st̴i͟tut̷e̕,̶ L̕on͟don҉,̵ ͘oh ͟ho̕w h̴e ͏w̡eep͝s ̵ho̵r͝ror̨ thr͝ou͟g͘h ̸his͢ ̵man҉y͝ e̸yes,͝ ̡h̡i̷s ͜mo͜ut҉h͘ ͘hungr͜ily͢ ̛devou҉ri̴ng w͞hat͟ he̷ c̛ou̵l̶d͟ ͟n̛o lǫnger͠ st̶om̢ach,͞ th͘e͠ ͏stor͝i̴es̨ squall̢ing͞ f͝ull ins̶i͝d͏e͞ ͏h̸i҉s͡ in̵t̡es̕ti̷n̛es, ͡t̸h͘e͠ wo̧rd̴s͝ li̸vi͠n̡g̡ cr͟a̸m̡p҉ed͝ ̡o̷n̶ his ̕e̡y̴e̴lid̡s҉ ̢an̵ḑ h͢e S̨ee͡s̕ ̷t̴hem̵ ͘e͠a̶ch̴ tim͏e҉ he tr͠i̛es t͝o͜ s͜le͞e̡p,̴ y͢et He ̶w͘a̷nts Mo͏re,͜ ͢co̵m͏e͡ ͟knoc͟k̴ ̨a̸nd ̧t͡ȩl͘l ̵him̴ ͠your҉ ̷f͘ea̸rs̶, make sure̴ it’͘s ̢fr͠e͟sh҉ les̛t ̧y̧ou ̡sh̨a͝ll be ̧t͡he ͝on͢e̴ ̶served r͝a͜w̢, we͢ a͝re̶ ͠s̡a̴fe͏ for͏ no̕w͏ ̸a̛s ͢h͢e ̴l̡e̡ave͟s͘ c͢al҉l͏e͝d back as҉ ̴he is͞ to͡ ̢the͢ m͢ęrc̷i̕l̴e̷ss ͠p͘it͘ ̛o͜f ̴c͜ryi̡n͜g͜ ̷s͟tati҉c te̶r͢r̡or͠s҉ ͟fro͏m whe͜nc҉e͠ he came͞,̷ ͢but ͝g̛i̕ve ̷yǫu͟r ͏tha̛n̵k̨s̴ ͞to ̛The͟ A͠rchivist ̢f̕o͏r̵ ̸w͜e̷’l̴l͟ See him a̸gain̕ ̵w̧hen ̛the Wor͜ld Ends̵</a></em> </b>—Intern Sasha told me that, upon seeing him and then sending him off, she was filled by a complicated mix of emotions, fondness for one, regret for another, relief and horror for a third. Just like a burrito filled not only with meat and cheese but also with onions and jalapeno peppers to sting the mouth contrasted by tomato and cucumbers to cool it right after.</p><p> </p><p>I told her like a burrito, that’s how life simply is. Relationships with other people are rarely static straightforward things, friendships are on equally complicated terms, maybe even more so, as romantic liaisons. People come into your life in an innocuous a way as working together in a placid office or in a flashy way as falling into your lap full of worms. And they leave not always in the same way they came, some you will last see in a tempest that ends in both a bang and a whimper, some you will see off boarding a bus that shouldn’t exist as their memories of you slowly fade away. Some you will think stayed with you but you would never know they had already left in the way that mattered.</p><p> </p><p>Life would be boring if it weren’t like that. </p><p> </p><p>Anyway, I think she’s good now, she’s editing my <em> Jaws </em> fic with a vigor I haven’t seen before—Oh! One of your friends is an editor? Oh, sorry, he <em> was </em>? Taught you some editing tricks?</p><p> </p><p>[CECIL LAUGHS LIGHTLY] You’re such a hoot, Intern Sasha.</p><p> </p><p>Here, I’ll leave you again listeners. Don’t worry you’ll hear my Voice again on the radio tomorrow, <em> as if you’ll hear anyone else </em>. But now, I bid you good night as I leave you to sleep to the sounds of Intern Sasha chanting in front of the mirror.</p><p> </p><p>Good night, Night Vale!</p><p> </p><p>Good night.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>—A YOUNG WOMAN’S VOICE, ECHOING, ‘<em> I SEE YOU, I SEE YOU’ </em>—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>—CREDITS MUSIC PLAYS—</strong>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><span>Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents. It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor and produced by Disparition. Again, this is neither Welcome to Night Vale nor a franchise of it nor anything formally related to it. This is a word vomit of a woman who should have known better to share it.</span><br/> <br/><span>This fic’s weather is Hold My Hand by Ken Ashcorp. Search for them in spotify or other places you listen music to, you’ll find them, or they’ll find you whichever comes first.</span></p><p>  <span>Want to scream about The Magnus Archives or the glory days of Night Vale? You can scream at the void in dheiress.tumblr.com, don’t worry, the void won’t judge. The void is also screaming about it.</span></p><p>  <span>TODAY’S PROVERB: Worldbuilding? What worldbuilding? You'll get dumped in the middle of a friendly little desert town with no explanation and no memory of anything before and there you'll live out the rest of your lives.</span></p><p>  <span>[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span><br/> </p><p> </p></blockquote></div></div>
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